Shen
by sbf2009
Summary: After the reformation of the Galtean Alliance, the cult of Bahamut is at work trying to call the powerful dragon god from the Mist.
1. Chapter I: The Summoning

Nearly one hundred years have passed since the War of Archadian Aggression. Dalmasca, along with Archadia, Rozarria, and Nabradia, have reformed the Galtean Alliance. With no war to draw people's attention, conflict comes about closer to home.

In a dark, damp cell in an unlit corner of the Garamsythe Waterway lay a terrified couple. The two humes, stolen from the town of Mt Bur-Omisace in the dead of night, were too exhausted to even continue weeping. Men in cloaks had abducted, drugged, and moved them to Rabanastre in the space of an evening. They had been kept for two days in a cramped cell, with only the company of the rats of the waterway.

The visibly pregnant woman stared out of her cell, looking at a spout of water pouring into the nearby reservoir. It was the only thing should could do to keep her mind off her capture. She was due any day now, and the thought of giving birth in a sewer made her sick to her stomach. Her husband sat with his back against the bars of the cage, head buried in his knees. He was trying to sleep, if only to pass the time until someone would finally come back for them. They were both weak from hunger, and neither could think of anything to say that would improve things, so they sat in silence, waiting.

A few minutes before midnight, ten men in robes approached the cage, torches and daggers in hand. One man extended a key from the sleeve of his robe and unlocked the latch.

"You will come with us."

The woman froze with fear. The man leapt wit the last of his strength, pushing one of the men down into the muck before being stabbed twice in the back by another. The hooded men grabbed the woman and dragged her away from the cage. She stumbled along without struggling, looking back to see her husband bleeding out on the ground.

The group reached a table surrounded by yet more hooded figures and forced the woman onto it. It was cold stone with elaborate engravings. She could only look on as the men tied down her limbs to the corner of the table. One man in a particularly elaborate set of robes emerged from the crowd.

The man, presumably the leader of this group, held out his arms above his head. In one hand, a blade of platinum. In the other, a crystal.

"Manufacted nethicite! Soul of the unborn! Spill forth your Mist upon this Ivalice! Let sea and sky be awash in it, that Bahamut may come and drink his fill! Return to us, Bahamut, and purge the world of weakness!"

The man brought the blade down into the woman's chest. Her last breaths gurgled in her throat, and she was dead. The crystal in the man's hand forced itself free from his grasp and levitated over the dead woman's body. Currents of Mist circulated between the crystal and unborn child, glowing brighter until the light in the room was blinding.

"Yes! Bahamut, we are here. Your children await your return!"

The Mist in the room grew thick and erupted in magickal flame. Those in the group who weren't thrown into the waters were immolated. When the raging mist died down, all that remained in the center of the room was a baby hume in a bed of ash, his skin burned brown by mist, and what little hair he had bleached white.

Of the two dozen or so men who entered the waterway the evening, only five returned to Lowtown. The one in the elaborate robes, Samuel, held the child in his arms. The others stayed close, still perplexed about what had just transpired.

"Sam, what happened? This was supposed to work. A hume soul should have been more than enough."

Sam turned toward the man to his left, a Banga named Nobul. "The Mist was enough. It was we who were lacking. That flame was unmistakably Bahamut's flare. He has refused us."

"How can an Esper refuse it's master?"

"Do not think to tell an Esper it's business, Nobul. A binding is a contract of mutual respect, one we have failed to earn. We, ourselves, will not be able to summon him. But this child..." Sam's gaze drifted down to the baby in his arms. "This child may have potential. His soul is receptive to Mist."

"So what is the plan, now?"

"We raise him as one of us, train him in the arts, and have him perform the ritual in our stead."

"But that will take years!"

"Bahamut has already punished us for our impudence. Should we try another ritual ourselves, it would be the end of us. Let the child risk his own life while we continue our work. Should it succeed, then our god shall walk amongst us at our will. Should he fail, we will have risked nothing."

"Surely consuming a soul would kill him before he could even bind."

"Perhaps if he were to use all of it, yes. But I doubt that will be necessary. I feel confident about our chances with this new conduit. At the very least, more confident than with the manufacted nethicite."

The men separated in the dark halls of Lowtown, leaving Sam to head toward the residences in upper Rabanastre.


	2. Chapter II: An Initial Spark

Shen, a 14 year old hume, was following behind Sam very closely. He his father's temper was too unpredictable to test. Their robes were conspicuous, but not enough to attract unnecessary attention.

Shen learned at a young age that having to wear long robes in the heat was a preferable alternative to having his birth marks on display. The grotesque, apparently seared, white stripes cutting across viera toned skin made Shen feel self conscious any time he left the safety of his over-sized clothing. Despite this, there was also a sense of pride instilled by his father. "Your birth marks are Bahamut's sign of your destiny," Sam told him, "only the privileged few should ever see them."

The two approached the closed east gate of Rabanastre. Knowing his place, Shen remained silent.

Sam smiled, "Sergeant, by what luck do I owe this chance encounter? I was not expecting you on guard duty today."

Harshim lifted the visor on his helmet. "Sam! What brings you out of your study?"

"My student and I are starting an expedition to locate patches of Galbana Lilies."

"Sounds like quite the undertaking. I'm no botanist, but it would seem that it could take a lifetime to find even one, let alone a patch of them."

"I don't expect us to be successful on our first trip, but that is no reason not to try."

Harshim laughed. "Well, there is no reason for me to keep you. You seem to know what you're doing. Stay safe, you two."

Shen genuflected meekly as Sam walked through the gate. He rushed through to keep pace with Sam as if shut behind him.

The Estersand proved to be particularly inhospitable that day. Shen sat with his legs crossed while Sam paced around him, lecturing him on the practice and philosophy of black magick.

"The ability to destroy is not instinctual. It must be trained. Destruction is the first step on the path of evolution. The weak must be purged to allow the strong to grow. It is not enough to have strength. You must have the conviction to allow that strength to grow."

Sam walked circles around Shen as the boy absorbed the lesson. "There are some with strength that choose to dedicate their abilities to the defense of their lessers." Sam paused to elicit a response.

"They are fools, father."

"And why is that?"

"Because a defensive act is only a substitute for lost opportunity to attack. It is only on the offensive when a mage can grow."

"You have been paying attention." Positive reinforcement was rare from Sam. Shen felt a renewed determination to impress his father. "Today is the first day of your practical training. You know enough to channel the Mist. Use it to generate fire. You will eat and drink nothing before you kill cactite with magickal fire."

"Father...I still haven't mastered that spell..."

"Hunger will be your tutor. Now go!"

After six hours of hunting in the sun, Shen was dehydrated and exhausted. All of his attempts at magick thus far had only been a few sparks extending from his fingers; not enough to harm anything. Each attempt drained him for a few minutes, giving his prey a chance to retaliate. A few spots on his blue robes were stained with blood where stray cactite needles pierced his skin.

Sam watched from a distance, comfortable in the shade of a rocky overhang. He tempered his impatience with a copy of Halim Ondore IV's Memoirs, some light reading for the day. Breakfast and lunch passed, depleting Sam's reserves of trail mix and a modestly sized water skin.

Shen tried once again to corner a small cactite. This one had a spot a blood on one of its appendages, indicating to Shen that this may be the same creature that had delivered a very painful slap to his face on his third attempt. Shen brought his hands out in front of him, miming a fireball.

"Payback time."

A few sparks of energy rattled between his fingers, and then, nothing. The cactite let out a shrill cry. In less than a second, a large, flowering cactoid dropped from a nearby ledge in front of Shen, kicking up sand and dust. Shen attempted turn and run, but tripped over his own robes. With barely enough strength to bring himself up on his hands and knees, he began to crawl away before a set of large needles found their way into his back. His body collapsed back into the ground and his head was buried in sand.

Shen looked up to his father in the distance. He could see the disgust in his eyes. Shen couldn't bear the thought of being judged as weak by his father. He raised one hand up to attempt another spell before a second slap threw him against the rock wall. It felt cold, but Shen couldn't tell if it was due to the shade or blood loss. The flowering cactoid towered over him. Shen had no choice but to put that last of his energy and effort into his magick.

"I am strong. You are my stepping stone to greatness. Now burn!" Fueled by determination and frustration, Shen's chest tightened as an explosion erupted from his hand. He collapsed forward as the cactoid and its smaller counterpart keeled over.

Once again reduced to his hands and knees, Shen crawled toward his kill to enjoy his conquest as he was instructed to. Sam wasted little time to come to his pupil's side.

"You've done well enough, though that spell was less fire and more disorganized arcane energy. Now drink your fill before the Estersand claims you."

Sam carved a small hole on a needless patch on the cactoid's body. Shen drank desperately as the creature's vital fluids leaked out.

"We shall make camp here. It is best you don't aggravate your wounds."

Shen, still to parched to speak, continued to drink from his kill. Sam began too lecture Shen with compliments disguised as insults as he started a fire and set up camp, but his words began to run together into an unintelligible mess in Shen's ears. The world around him similarly began to lose it's sharp edges, then its shape.

Sam's face disappeared behind the shadow of his cowl, and the wolves in the distance darted back and forth on what was left of the horizon in the form of shadows and demons. Trying to find focus, Shen stared into the fire. In the embers he saw Bahamut's eyes starring back. The dragon's head exploded from the flames and to speak to Shen.

"You belong to me, mind, body, and soul. All you do and all you are is my will. Serve me in all you do, or know only the flames of my wrath."

Shen, frightened, stumbled back against the rock wall. His hand landed on a spot of his own blood from a minute before. Looking at his hand revealed an ocean of blood. Shen tumbled down into the sanguine expanse, his lungs filling with blood as he fell unconscious.


End file.
